The Mysterious Murder of Mistress McLaughlin
by Charlotte-Olivia
Summary: One of Watson's Warriors, Emi McLaughlin, has been murdered at a carnival. Dabbles a lot with Sherlock's childhood and stuff. Plausible Johnlock because I lack self-control.


Sherlock smiled at the fond memories that washed over him as he paid for the tickets and entered. Ah, the carnival. He remembered his teen years, the main attraction at the freak show. "The Amazing Sheridan Hope!" they'd called him. He was their psychic. It was a huge attraction. All of the smells, the people, and the flashing lights. He loved it. Though he usually preferred quiet and puzzles, he felt such a feeling of belonging here. John smiled lightly, obviously also reliving his childhood.

And then there was the scream.

Not the scream of adrenaline or fright from the ride. A real scream. A shrill, loud scream that cut through the air and caused silence to fall over the grounds. Sherlock smiled with glee, not even flinching as John elbowed him, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the shriek. The rounded the corner and were met with the sight of a woman standing over a body, staring in shock.

"Sh-she…. I just… I…." And then she proceeded to cry, choking out, "She was my friend!" John immediately went into action, calming the woman and calling an ambulance to pick her up. Sherlock's slim fingers tapped rapidly on his phone, sending Lestrade the address. He snapped on some gloves (mainly because John would snap at him if he didn't), and set to work.

_Lives with three… four other women._

_Two large dogs, three cats._

_Still in uni._

_Single._

_Blunt force trauma to the back of the head._

_Caught off guard; didn't fight back._

_Depressed._

He took her wallet from her coat pocket. He flipped through the Union Jack-decorated pouch.

_ International drivers' license. Study abroad? Military?_

_Pictures from a few years ago. Friends. _

_Used to be overweight._

_A hundred quid._

_Frequent flyer._

_Several bookstore cards._

_…Slip of paper._ 'Call Sherlock.'

_Needed help. Obviously. Smart enough to know who to call_.

He looked at her short, blonde hair, matted with blood. She had a small tattoo of bird behind her ear. In small neat print, 'Watson's Warriors' was inked in white on her upper left shoulder blade.

Sherlock puzzled slightly. Watson's Warriors? He would ask John. Somehow, he felt that it was connected to his flatmate.

"John, what's that?"

"A tattoo, I believe." John shifted uncomfortably where he crouched by the body.

"I know that," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not dense. What does the logo mean?"

"It's nothing."

"If it were nothing, you would tell me what it meant, John, not just sit there like an insolent child. The way you're acting, I would think it had something to do with you." John answered with nothing but stubborn silence. "So it does have something to do with you," he stated, looking John up and down. "You knew her." John just stood and walked away.

While John took a call from Sarah- which bothered Sherlock very much _(Irrelevant. Deleted from hard drive.)_, he spotted a familiar face.

"Victor?"

"SHERLY! How ye doin', chap?" The gangly, and obviously drunk, man stumbled towards Sherlock and shook his hand. "Cor! I 'aven't seen you since ye came back from the dead! That was 'round a year ago, right? Ha! An' a few more since your first case wit me father."

"Ah, yes. That was a while ago. That incorrigible Hudson fellow got the death sentence in Florida, if that makes you feel any better."

"Mm! Well, 'e sure deserved it! Ye 'ere about poor little Emi? Just 'eard about it from some o' the other carnies. She was a good soul, if e'er there was. Part o' the Warriors if I remember right," Victor rambled. Sherlock's curiosity was piqued, so he cut off the old acquaintance.

"The Warriors? What are the Warriors?"

"Ye mean ye don't know?! Jesus, Sherly! The Watson's Warriors! We was a small organization formed right after ye jumped. Kids 'n adults alike. We tagged buildin's 'n stuff. Emi was a mite more involved than most o' us. She 'n the Doc was good friends I think. Knew one 'nother afore was one o' the rumours." Victor stopped, bit his lip, and mumbled, "I've said too much." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up to hide in his hair.

"Please, do continue Victor. I need to know everything about her and this organization if I'm to ever solve this case. My success all hinges on your information," Sherlock said, turning on the charm expertly. He knew flattery would almost always make Victor open up eagerly. But the man shuffled his feet and shook his head.

"Not this time, 'Olmes. I would love to help ye, but 'tisn't my secret ta share." Sherlock prodded some more, but Victor refused to say anything... well, he refused to iverbally/i say anything. His body language on the other hand said many things. Not all of it was relevant to the case- Victor was seeing someone new, one of the carnies was shagging a tightrope walker from another troop, Victor's sister had recently become addicted to drugs- but other things, more subtle things, were shown as well. The most important, however, was that Victor somehow _compared_ this girl to Sherlock. Sherlock scowled.

"How is this _Emi_ anything like _me_?" After his initial shock, Victor sighed dejectedly and shrugged.

"The girl idolized ye. She read yer website thousands o' times, 'n she 'ad 'er 'eart set on becomin' a police consultant. She modelled 'erself after ye. Took it real 'ard when ye jumped. Came up wit all these crazy theories 'bout 'ow you must've survived 'n 'ow you could've faked it. S'pose she was right in the end. Listen, I hafta go now. Me boss'll skin me 'live if I don't get back to work," Victor said restlessly.

"Thank you very much, Victor. We'll be in contact."

"We sure will Mista 'Olmes!" Victor winked and trotted away. Sherlock paced for a bit, filing his data, then strolled casually over to where John was standing.

"You were friends with this Emi girl."

"I suppose you could say that. We chatted."

"So how did you meet? Was she one of your ex-girlfriends?" Sherlock was surprised by how bitter that last part sounded, but John didn't seem to notice and shook his head.

"She was Clara's little sister." It only took Sherlock a few moments to make the connection.

"Clara as in...?"

"Yes. That Clara. When Harry and Clara split, Emi was much kinder to Harry than any of Clara's mates. I like to believe she grew rather fond of me. When she found out I had become flatmates with you, she went totally nuts; she was a tad bit obsessed with you and your work. Apparently, she was one of the 10 people who visited your website before I came along and made you famous." John smirked and Sherlock scowled.

"13 people were frequent visitors of my website before you, thank you very much! And it's nice to know that someone appreciated my talent before you dramatized it in that thing you call a blog!" Sherlock turned away and sniffed indignantly while John chuckled. "We need to collect more data," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Great!" John smiled, "Shall we check out her dorm?" John didn't even glance at Sherlock as he set off toward the exit of the carnival.

To say the dorm room was odd was an understatement. It was cluttered beyond belief, papers littered everywhere and books strewn about, some opened and highlighted, worn and loved, others neat and immaculate. A case file was hung up on a large whiteboard, strings and notes connecting suspects and ideas. Post-it notes were stuck to practically every surface, and to add to the chaos, numerous teapots sat in almost any empty space. It wasn't until they got into her office that they noticed the big black Great Dane.

"Shit," John swore. He briefly recalled Emi mentioning the pup she'd bought a few months before Sherlock's return. She'd said it was the sweetest little thing, but the growling creature in front of him seemed quite the opposite. He tried to remember its name... something German. But before he could, Sherlock walked up to the dog calmly. It bristled even more.

"Hello, Berlitz. Aren't you a good guard dog," Sherlock cooed while kneeling next to the animal. It cocked its head to the side, ears lifting. Berlitz sat and thumped her tail on the ground. Sherlock smiled fondly and rubbed behind her ears, standing up. "John, stop gaping like a fish and help me investigate. Berlitz won't have tampered with evidence," Sherlock glanced down at dog and couldn't help the grin spreading on his face. "She's a good dog." And with that, he went for a closer look at the kitchen, leaving John alone with Berlitz, pondering his friend's queer fondness for dogs.

**AN: Well, this is my first fanfic on this site. Hope you enjoyed. If time permits, I should be updating soon.**


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